


Ghoulish

by kehinki



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Art, Character Death, Gen, General Creepiness, Ghosts, Halloween, Humor, M/M, Paranormal Investigators, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-02-19 14:16:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2391383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kehinki/pseuds/kehinki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of unrelated spooky ficlets in honour of Halloween, mainly focused on Bucky/Steve or Sam/Steve. Relevant tags will be added with each chapter.</p><p>Chapter 1: Bucky meets a boy down by the pier. (Bucky/Steve or gen)<br/>Chapter 2: Someone's leaving roses for Bucky. (Bucky/Steve)<br/>Chapter 3: Sam's stuck in a horror movie cliche. (Sam/Steve)<br/>Chapter 4: Steve's body doesn't rot. (Bucky/Steve or gen)<br/>Chapter 5: Trick or Treat (doodle)<br/>Chapter 6: He's a Witch! (Bucky/Steve or gen)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Maybe I'm Meant for the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> (Please note that I'm choosing not to warn.)
> 
> Chapter summary: Bucky meets a boy down by the pier.

Bucky walked over to the pier, dragging the muck off his feet onto the damp boards, and then made his way to the dock. He’d often perch there just to watch the fog move over the water.

His siblings made sure that moments of solitude like this one were few and far between, but he didn’t resent them for it. He liked the cacophony most of the time, liked his parents’ chatter and liked the radio that his mother never turned off—but all that was second to digging his toes into the sand and feeling the salty breeze leave goosebumps on his skin.

He sat himself down at the very edge of the dock, letting his feet hang over the water, too short to graze it. Aside from the waves and distant seagulls, it was quiet enough that he could doze off right there, sitting on the dock, letting the water lull him to sleep… 

“Hi,” someone said.

“Fuck!” Bucky replied.

He then heard giggling and Bucky quickly crouched down, peering over the edge. There was another little boy there—right in the water!—staring up at him with a pinched mouth, like he was trying not to laugh. Rude enough to scare the mortal life out of Bucky but apparently polite enough to not rub it in.

“What do you think you’re doin’?” Bucky snapped. Was this kid out of his damn mind?

“Nothin’,” the kid replied. “Swimmin’,” he immediately amended.

“Swimming? Aren’t you freezing? How long’ve you been in there?” His anger at having his quite solitude disrupted quickly became astonishment at the sheer foolhardiness of the other boy. His skin was bone white and although he wasn’t shivering, he looked like he’d be dangerously ill any second. At the very least he’d catch a cold. “Get out of there,” Bucky said, voice firm. The kid was clearly a moron.

The kid didn’t reply, just waded under the dock. On his hands and knees, Bucky followed him, watching his blond head from between the gaps in the boards. “You’ll catch your death,” Bucky said, trying to reason with him. His ma clearly hadn’t taught him sense.

“What’s your name?” the kid asked, finally appearing again from under the dock, unmoved by Bucky’s concern. “I’m Steve.”

“I’m Bucky and you’re nuts,” Bucky said. This caused Steve to laugh, though, and Bucky felt a little pleased, admittedly. “Do you live around here?”

“Yes,” Steve said, nodding. Now that his head was fully out of the water, Bucky could see that he was probably younger than him—he had big eyes on a small face. They were blue like a summer sky, the only the only bit of colour on this drab day. His hair might’ve been bright, too, if it were sunny, but for now it was water-darkened and lank. “Do you want to come in?” Steve asked him, his fingers reaching out to grip the boards where Bucky was kneeling.

Bucky wasn’t going to dignify that with a response. “I have to get home before the streetlights come on,” he said. “You should head home, too, before your ma throws a fit.”

Steve pressed his lips together, said, “Okay,” and that was that. Bucky put on his shoes and strolled back over to the pier.

He spared a glance to wave back at the blond head in the water. After a moment’s hesitation, Steve waved back.

***

He didn’t go back to the pier for another couple of weeks, too busy with chores and his newspaper job and schoolwork. The day he finally _did_ find his feet leading him back to his preferred side of the beach, he knew it was because he needed a place to stew in peace.

“Ouch,” he heard someone say. Steve was there, under the pier, clinging to some rocks—still half-submerged in that inky water. “You got a bully problem?”

Of course, he was referring to Bucky’s busted lip, the very thing he needed to stew about. “Who doesn’t,” Bucky said. He looked up, saw that Steve was looking even paler than usual. “If you come out of there and sit on the sand like a normal person, you can have my jacket.”

“It’s an ugly jacket,” Steve said, smirking. Bucky made a face at him. “You know, I used to have a bully problem, too,” Steve said. “They even pushed me off that dock once, over there,” he added, pointing. “At _night_.”

Bucky snorted. “You probably loved that. ‘Sides, it’s your own fault for bein’ ‘round here after dark.”

“They still shouldn’t have pushed me,” Steve said, and Bucky knew that, at least, was true. “I had my drawing pad on me and it was all ruined. And—”

“You know how to draw?” Bucky asked, perking up. He’d come here to lick at his wounds in private, sure, but he was beginning to realize a distraction is just as good, maybe better. “Can you draw people? Draw me.”

Steve laughed, shaking his head. “What would I draw with?”

“Your finger. On the sand.”

Steve refused, told Bucky to draw something and then _maybe_ he’d give it a go. Bucky drew a frankly unflattering picture of Steve as a stick figure—but Steve laughed, and it was like a million moths or butterflies or _something_ fluttered to life in his stomach.

But when he finished his masterpiece (he needed to add stink lines) and looked up to tell Steve to uphold his end of the bargain, he was already gone.

It wasn’t surprising a kid as skinny as Steve was as quiet as the night, and although Bucky was disappointed, he was mostly glad he’d decided to head to his home where it was probably _warm_.

“Yeah, see you around,” Bucky told the beach at large, rubbing away the drawing.

***

The next time he went to the pier, Steve was waiting for him. He was perched on a rock a few feet away from shore, and his feet were the only things touching the water.

When he spotted Bucky, he beamed like he was the happiest kid alive and lifted his arms and beckoned Bucky over.

Bucky rolled up his pant legs and awkwardly made his way over, trying to avoid shells or crabs or anything else that would cut up his feet. “I have a theory,” he said when he was in hearing distance. “And it’s that your family lives in the lighthouse. True or false?”

“There’s not enough room in there for a whole family, dummy,” Steve scoffed.

“Then I have a different theory. Your pa’s a fisherman and lives in one of those boats.”

Steve hummed in response, neither denying nor confirming, and Bucky left it at that for then.

***

The next time Bucky met up with him, he learned his full name was Steven Grant Rogers, and he was eleven, just one year younger than him.

Steve was able to cajole Bucky into swimming further into the water, and Bucky figured if someone as scrawny as Steve could handle the cold, so could he. He took off his shirt and waded under the docks, following Steve’s lead.

“You’re a good swimmer,” Steve said.

“I’d be even better in the s-summer,” Bucky said, and then clenched his jaw, silencing his clattering teeth.

Steve confessed that he himself was always a terrible swimmer, but it was obvious that practice had done the trick, since he swam circles around Bucky. But there was at least one thing Bucky could prove he was better at while in the water. “Let’s see who can hold their breath longer—on the count of three, duck your head. One. Two—”

Steve submerged himself and Bucky did the same, taking a deep breath. He closed his eyes tight and tried to count evenly. At around twenty seconds, he exhaled, feeling bubbles float up into his hair and to the surface. After thirty seconds, his lungs were beginning to burn, feeling tight in his chest. After forty seconds, he didn’t know which way was up, and found himself madly clawing at the water until he found himself breathing air, taking deep lungfulls.

“Aha!” he gasped, blinking water out of his eyes. “How long did you…”

Steve—apparently—hadn’t remerged.

He looked around. He then felt around in the water, but Steve didn’t seem to be around.

Typical of him to disappear without a goodbye, Bucky thought. Probably couldn’t handle the shame of losing.

***

Steve might’ve gone home a little early, but Bucky still had his full name, which meant he could ask anyone in the neighbourhood who he was and where he lived. Friends shouldn’t keep important stuff like that secret.

So, naturally, he asked his ma. “Steve Rogers? Around here?” she asked distractedly from where she was clipping coupons.

“Yeah. Little blond kid, likes to swim.”

“I don’t know any Rogers in this area,” his mother was mumbling. “George, do you know a Rogers?”

“Ah,” his father said delicately, “do you remember Sarah?”

“No, I… Oh. Oh, she used to live in Henry’s complex.”

“Her son was named Steve, wasn’t he?”

“Oh! Oh, you’re absolutely right.” She’d put down her scissors and clippings, and his father had put down his novel. “That poor boy. They say those little monsters held his head under. _Held him under_ , George!”

“Sweetheart, not while the kids are in the room.”

Bucky was shooed out of the room but waited by the door for what felt like hours. 

That night, his ma sat by his bed, looking sad, and said, “Sometimes kids make up terrible scare stories about the dead. If someone is disrespecting that poor boy’s memory, you just say to them that you want no part in it, alright, honey?”

***

It took a couple weeks before Bucky had the guts to go down to the pier again. He wasn’t crazy; there could be a thousand other Steven Grant Rogers in the city.

He beat down the urge to bring one of his siblings along. They were too young to be of much help warding off spirits anyway.

He stood on the dock, watched the fog roll in, watched the lighthouse glint. The foghorn sounded and the gulls cawed and Bucky felt a misty rain against his skin before he headed back home.

***

Steve wasn’t there the next day either. Nor the next. He didn’t even come out when Bucky called for him.

It was two months later, when winter had well and truly settled into the bones of the city, that Bucky heard the water stir under the dock.

“I think I won,” Steve said, looking the same as ever.

“What,” Bucky breathed, watching the word float up from his mouth in a misty puff.

“Your contest. How long did you hold your breath?” He was smiling.

But the smile didn’t feel warm and fluttery; something cold clutched at Bucky’s heart. “Steve,” he started, and then stopped. He took a breath, tried again: “Steve, you died.”

The smile faded off Steve’s face, slowly. He was still staring up at Bucky, and Bucky knew for sure he’d gone mad, because everyone knew what had happened to that poor Rogers boy, that poor, poor boy and his poor, poor mother, who’d lost her husband and then her son.

And he’d thought about it, lying in bed, about how the boy’s bones lay somewhere offshore, buried under the sand. How his skin must’ve turned white and bloated, how it must’ve tinged green while sinking to the bottom.

Steve’s brows were furrowed, and his mouth was pinched unhappily. “Bucky,” he said, and it sounded pleading, “come swim with me.”

He was holding on to the hem of Bucky’s pant leg, not tugging, just holding, but Bucky felt himself slip from the dock almost effortlessly.

His clothes were too heavy to swim in and his toes were already going numb. Soon his lips would turn blue, he was sure of it. 

But Steve looked so _happy_.

 


	2. That Old Time Romance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone leaves roses for Bucky.

Steve wouldn’t say Bucky looked peaceful in death. His face was slack and empty; if anything, he just looked gone.

He leaned down, brushed his lips against Bucky’s, and moved along. There were likely a million things he should’ve told him in life, but now in death, none of them were coming to mind. The few thoughts of love and devotion that did form were like ashes in his mouth, too little too late.

He stood with his back against the wall, watching others file by in a line, clutching at Bucky’s hand, kissing his hair, murmuring soothing nothings to each other. A part of Steve was angry: where were they before? Where were they when Bucky had been missing, when the man had been assumed dead, where were they when Steve had been searching. He knew it was ungenerous, but he was strung out and raw, unable to give a single soul a modicum of clemency.

He sat down, watched the filtered sunlight gleam off the white petals that engulfed Bucky’s coffin.

“We’ve been working on Hydra for years,” a police officer told him later, when nearly everyone had left. She clutched at her hat and tipped her voice low. “Don’t worry, young man, we’ll make sure your friend gets justice.”

After, when they lowered Bucky into the ground, Steve thought that he’d hold them to that.

***

He let a few days pass before he visited the gravesite, bringing wildflowers he’d grown himself. That was one of the things he’d been meaning to show Bucky when they found him: his new apartment with the communal garden, and his own little patch of yellow wildflowers.

When he knelt down, he saw that by his headstone, there was a rose, deep ark red in colour. Someone must’ve already come by, Steve thought, and he almost felt happy seeing the solitary flower lying there on the grass. An acknowledgement of shared grief. For a brief moment, the tightness in his chest receded, although a part of him still wanted to claw at the dirt until his fingers bled. 

The rain rolled in but he didn’t get up. Droplets slid down the stone, filling the spaces where Bucky’s name had been carved in. The hollows of James Buchanan Barnes filled before leaking down, and Steve watched until he began to shiver, until his clothes clung to him tightly.

“I better go, Buck,” he told the empty air. “I’ll see you next week.” _Don't do anything stupid till I get back_ , he nearly joked.

***

The next week, the rose from the week before was still there, wilting, but now two new roses accompanied it, also dark red.

It was just the two of them, Steve thought. Him and the other mysterious mourner, leaving things for Bucky, thinking of him, while the world dithered away.

“I brought daisies,” Steve said. Daisies and roses for Bucky.

***

His habit of talking to the headstone was dying out, but he still made trips to the grave. He’d leave his flowers and he’d admire the roses—this week there were four new ones.

Steve lay down there in the grass, hand reaching out to the headstone, feeling the rose petals against his face. The breeze was slight and the day was warm.

He fell asleep and didn’t wake until dark, until a handful of stars shone dully overhead. When he shifted, he realized he’d clutched onto a handful of roses as he slept, and the thorns had dug into his palms, hard enough to draw blood.

Eight roses, he realized belatedly, when he was already home and tucked into bed. There’d been eight roses when he woke up.

***

He came week after week like clockwork, and noted that the roses would show up sporadically, sometimes every week, sometimes every other week. There had been fourteen in total when Steve stopped coming to visit weekly, and instead reduced it to every month.

He filled his most of time with his drawings, with listening in on a support group, or talking progress with the police (of which there was none, they told him, although in a much more roundabout way).

He dreamed about Bucky sometimes, nothing substantial, just the two of them sitting together, not even talking, Bucky lounging on the couch and Steve spread out on the floor, reading. Bucky turned his head, opened his mouth to say something but Steve couldn’t hear—it was like his ears had been stuffed with cotton.

And then Bucky got a funny look on his face, closed his mouth and smiled a little tiredly—he leaned forward and Steve craned his neck up—

He woke up to rain against his windows, leaving grey-white shadows against his walls. He got up, wandered over to the kitchen, and saw three bright red roses in an empty beer bottle on his table.

Sam or Natasha, he thought, leaning in to smell them.

***

Later, there were a dozen roses waiting for him on his doorstep, bright red and anonymously delivered, no card, no nothing.

A fellow mourner, comforting the one who grieved with them.

***

“You got a secret admirer?” Sam asked when he next visited, gesturing to the flowers around the room, placed in vases or bottles, or cans. Steve had been finding them throughout the apartment: at the kitchen table, in the vase on his dresser, scattered over the mantle.

“I guess I do,” he told Sam, not bothering to tell him he’d changed the locks twice, or that he thought he might have been going a little mad.

When he crawled into the bed that night, the sheets were covered with red petals, and the scent had permeated the sheets. Blood red roses for Bucky, bright red roses for Steve, he thought, letting his eyes drift shut.

***

“Hydra operatives have been showing up dead,” an officer told him the next time he went to check in on the case. “We found Rollins gutted in an alley.”

“It’s like someone’s doing your job for you,” Steve said, voice flat.

He didn’t care about the murders, didn’t care that they didn’t get due trial, didn’t care about how much they suffered before they died. Whatever was happening to them was well deserved.

He buried his face in his pillow that night, inhaled the sickly sweet smell of wilted petals, and imagined Bucky lying next to him, arm draped across his back, murmuring sweet nonsense into Steve’s ear.

***

The next time he was at Bucky’s grave, the day was cold and bright.

“One hundred and eleven roses,” Steve said, kneeling before the headstone. “And one hundred and eleven Hydra operatives found dead.”

He laughed, clutching at the grass under his hands, feeling light-headed and delighted. “You were always such a fucking romantic.”

 


	3. Sam Wilson: Ghost Hunter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's stuck in a horror movie cliche.

It was Steve’s idea to try and exorcise the place.

Sam, like a reasonable person, had suggested getting a couple of motel rooms a few miles down the road, and he’d even volunteered to foot the bill because although motels are generally creepy and potentially teeming with all manner of axe murderer, they were at least better than _haunted houses._

But Steve had insisted the house was their _home_ now, that they couldn’t just abandon it, regardless of the various things that went bump in the night. “And besides,” he’d added, setting his jaw, “the ghost might need our help.”

So Steve called Natasha, saying they needed help with a paranormal investigation, and Natasha being Natasha, accepted that at face value.

She showed up at twilight with a Ouija board, and that was when Sam Wilson realized he was going to die.

“I’ve also brought some surveillance equipment,” she said, seemingly unaware of Sam’s discomfiture. “Just little things—some cameras, audio equipment, EMF meters, thermal scanners.”

“Yeah, the basics,” he said, eyeing her duffle bag.

“Alright!” Steve said, taking a camera and turning it on himself. “This is Steve Rogers and we’re investigating some strange noises that keep coming from the house—like groans, moaning, things like that. This is my husband Sam,” he said, turning the camera to Sam. “Say hi, Sam!”

Sam did not say hi.

“And this is our friend Natasha,” Steve said, quickly moving on, “who’ll be helping.”   

“I wanted to sell this place,” Sam called, crossing his arms. “I’ve already looked into realtors. If I end up dying here tonight, I want the world to know that I was the rational one.”

“Sam’s silly,” Steve told the camera, his smile wide with affection.

***

A couple hours later, they were lounging around the living room, with four large pizzas and three entire _things_ of pop.

It had been pretty uneventful, and Sam was disappointed despite himself. He could continue to act like the rational one, sure, but in truth, he was as much of an adrenalin junkie as the other two, and he could really go for some excitement right then. Maybe some rattling windows, maybe the tap water could turn to blood—and then they’d all be forcibly removed from the house, while Sam could still say I Told You So.

“Wait,” Natasha said, grabbing the remote and turning off the TV. She held up a finger and tilted her head. “You hear that?”

Sam strained to hear, and at first, he thought Natasha was screwing with them because aside from the normal noises of the house settling (it was so old, after all), he couldn’t hear a thing. And then—a creak and a sound like a moan, low and pained. A human sound.

“I think it’s coming from the basement,” Steve told the camera. “We should check it out.”

The lights flickered—once, twice—and then they were out, and the three of them were illuminated only by the light of the camera and the half moon outside.

“Of course,” Sam said.

“I brought flashlights,” Natasha said. “I thought this might happen—there’s a rain storm rolling in.”

Except a rainstorm would be a rational explanation, and Sam was reasonably certain the thing in the basement had fucked with the fuse box.

Steve was already up, flashlight in one hand and camcorder in the other. “The basement!” he said, running off. “One of you stay guard up here!”

“Steve, wait, we’re not splitting up!” Sam called, running after him.

Which was pretty stupid to do, considering.

Steve was pointing the flashlight down the stairs; the only things visible were the cement walls and the cobwebs that clung to them.

“We really need to clean up when this is all over,” Steve said, taking his first step down.

He froze when another moan sounded, soft, barely audible.

“Who’s there?” Steve asked, descending further into the darkness. Sam followed because if he had self-preservation instincts, he wouldn’t be married to Steve Rogers. The steps creak under him and the grips the rail hard as he follows the yellow glow of the flashlight. He stepped up behind him just as Steve asked, “What do you want?”

And then, silence.

The hum of the radiator, the furnace, everything was silent. The only thing Sam could hear were their collective breaths, and the only thing he could see was the wall in front of them, with its peeling paint.

“What do you want?” Steve repeated.

The paint began to peel further and Sam’s heartbeat spiked as he took a step back. “What the—”

It wasn’t just the paint that was peeling: the cement of the walls was cracking, small bits of rubble falling to the floor.

“Okay, we’re getting the hell out of here,” Sam said urgently, grabbing Steve’s biceps, pulling.

“Wait, wait, it’s communicating!” Steve pointed the camcorder at the wall. The cracks were lengthening, spelling something out—

Carved into the wall was the word ‘you’.

“I’m calling the realtor!” Sam yelled, tugging Steve away.

***

Sam did not call the realtor because peer pressure.

“It wants Steve?” Natasha asked later, in the living room.

“It could have meant the collective you,” Steve said helpfully.

“Look,” Sam started, splaying his fingers in front of him, “I’ve seen enough horror movies in my life to know that this thing is probably not a ghost but instead a demon that wants to devour our immortal souls.”

“Don’t be melodramatic,” Steve said.

“ _And_ ,” Sam continued, “I also know that the black guy always dies first. So we need to figure this out before that happens.”

“Sam’s being melodramatic,” Steve said, pointing the camera at him, grinning. “Smile, Sam.”

Sam didn’t have a chance to smile—not that he _would have_ anyway—because a wail sounded, high-pitched and piercing. The windows rattled around them, the coffee table shook.

“Where’s that coming from?” Natasha was saying.

“We should split up to find it,” Steve added.

Sam gently placed a hand over both of their mouths. “No, we don’t go looking for it. We stay here and try to not get possessed.”

“Mghmf!” Natasha said, pointing behind Sam. Next to her, Steve’s eyes had widened.

Sam didn’t want to turn around, he really, really didn’t, but he knew morbid curiosity would win out in the end and he’d end up looking and seeing—who knew, a demented, bloodied little girl in a white dress, a guy with half his face melted off, or maybe that creepy dude from the gas station nearby that Steve said was ‘really friendly but also maybe followed me home so lock the doors’.

Taking a breath, Sam turned.

On the wall, illuminated by the light of the camcorder, was Steve’s name, written in slowly congealing blood.

…Honestly, it wasn’t as bad as Sam was expecting.

But then again—“No more fucking around with this thing. We’re gonna pretend that didn’t just happen and we’re gonna sleep in one big cuddle pile right here by the door.”

Steve and Natasha nodded.

***

When they woke the next day, the sky was bright and spirits were high because they could at least review the tapes and audio recordings. It would be an adventure of sorts.

“The ghost might be in love with Steve.”

“He’s taken,” Sam told the house at large, forwarding through the camera footage. It was all pretty basic stuff: doors opening and closing by themselves, furniture being moved around, Natasha getting possessed halfway through the night and floating to the ceiling.

“Check the audio,” Natasha said, leaning up against him.

Most of the recordings were just static, some moaning here and there. Finally, a voice:

At first, it was just heavy breathing. A groan.

 

Then: “Ş̠̤͌ͩ͑t̻̺̪̦͂ͫ̿̕e̪̞̣͟v͚͍ͦͬ̾̊̊̈̕ė̷̜͍̩̂̍̈́ ̧͉̈ͅŘ̼ͣ́ͤ̾̀ô̖̺͖̼̦ͮͣ̄ͨͭ̃͞g͈̩̲̞̝̙̒͂̊̊eͦ̊̄҉͇r̢̞̙̹̖̘̃ͥ̂̎ͤ̎ͤs̷̘̖̼̹̞̘̃ͫ̔ͫ.̖̠̼̺̣͐̚.͖̗͌͑̿͛ͧ̾͡ͅ.̶̠̤̽͑͛̇ ͈̙̼yͪ͗͒́̚ö̖ͪ̑͝ū̻̜̪̪͔̘̉̊̽̍ͅr͆ͦ̉ͪ̃͗̏̇͂ͫ͜҉t̶̮̞̒̽͋ͤ̆i̻̞̫̮̕m͙̟̪̤͓̽͐̄̂ͨ̀̽ͅè̋́ͦ́ ̫͝-̳̓̉̊͌-͈̼͙̩͉̎ͯ̒̌ͩ͐ ͂ͫ̐ͪ̇̄҉h̸̃a̮͉͇͑͐̉̈ͩͩ̀̚ͅs̨͍̗͓͕͚̳̃̌͛̿̒ ͔͎̻̣̼͕̯̏͌̅͑ͣ̈́̏c̰̪̳̥̣͖̄͆͒̏̍̒o͎̣̾̌ͪ͐ͯ͂̚͢ṃ͗̄̚e…”

 

And then, a laugh.

Not a menacing laugh, a genuine, happy laugh came from the recording. “Nah, Steve, I’m just fuckin' with you. How are ya?”

A moment of stunned silence.

Steve furrowed his brow and said, “Bucky?”

 

 


	4. Rot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick drabble from tumblr. A creepy ficlet for the day after Halloween.

The odd thing about it was, he didn’t look dead. 

Laid down on the gurney, under the bright fluorescent lights of the medical wing, it looked more like he’d chosen to nap in the most inappropriate place he could find. Clinically dead for six hours and his cheeks were still rosy red. Blood wasn't circulating; his heart, lungs, synapses, everything had stopped. The heavy blood in his veins was motionless, but his damn cheeks were red. 

Bucky watched for signs of–-something. Maybe his chest would move, or his eyelashes would twitch. He looked asleep, he looked totally fine, everything about him was perfect, everything except the bullet hole in his forehead, wiped clean so it looked neat and tidy, like his hair, tenderly brushed to the side.

And maybe–-and this was a big maybe–-maybe if Bucky reached deep into Steve's flesh with his fingers and dug that bullet out, Steve’s body would start healing around the damage, his synapses would fire, his lungs fill, and his heart would stutter back to life. He’d wake up, blink against those horrible fluorescent lights and ask how long he was out for. 

Bucky's fingers twitched at his side, but he didn't move. He instead watched the government try Rumlow while Steve lay on the gurney back at the hospital, looking rosy-cheeked and perfect. It’d been three days at that point. He didn’t rot. 

He didn’t rot and it was the  _damndest_  thing. Even when they finally buried him, two weeks later, he hadn’t so much as turned ashen. Hadn’t started to smell. On an impossibly--insultingly--sunny day in May, they lowered his flag-draped coffin deep into the ground.

Bucky wondered if this was the same as what it’d been like with the ice. Wondered if he’d really died and then come back. 

Maybe he should’ve dug that bullet out after all. 


	5. Trick or Treat (doodle)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's that time of year again! Okay, it's only September.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for more spooky fics. :) If anyone has prompts or suggestions, drop me a line!


	6. He's a Witch!

Steve woke up on the couch, his body covered in heaps of blankets and shawls. He glanced over at the hearth; the fire seemed to have burned out hours ago.

“Bucky?” he called, his throat scratchy and raw. He tried to get up—too fast, dizzyingly fast—and steadied himself against the arm of the couch. He placed his socked feet on the floor and accidentally knocked over a bottle. He got up and three more bottles clinked together, tipping over and rolling under the coffee table. Steve tugged a shawl around his shoulders and ventured towards the kitchen.

“Bucky?” he called again, hearing movement in the kitchen. “What’re you doing?”

Bucky’s back was to him, and he seemed to have not heard, not until Steve stepped on the creaky floorboard. Bucky turned around from where he was hunched over the stove.

“Steve!” he said, a little out of breath. His hair was in disarray, the buttons on his shirt were open, and he was barefoot. Steve found himself blushing as Bucky gripped his shoulders and forced him to sit down. “That was the longest I’ve seen you sleep," Bucky said, inches from his face. "That one really put you out. But you look better.”

“I feel better.” He did, a little. His head was still stuffy, and his throat hurt, but there were no longer any black spots in his vision, and his breathing was normal. Twenty breaths per minute.

Not three, like last night.

Whatever Bucky was brewing on the stove released a tremendous plume of white smoke, and Bucky turned to it, switching the gas off and removing the pot from the flames. It smelled minty. He hoped it tasted minty, not like the tarry sludge Bucky had given him yesterday.

Bucky opened a jar and dumped its contents into the pot, causing the smoke to dissipate. Steve glanced up; luckily, there was no new smoke stain on the ceiling to join the others. “We’ll let that cool off,” Bucky said, wiping his hands on his pants. “Bottle it up and let it sit for a week. Take this one for now,” he added, pressing a bowl into Steve’s hands. The warmth from the concoction was causing his fingertips to pink, and then his palms. The skin of his forearms was still as grey as ever.

“Drink it,” Bucky said, gently tipping the bowl up. He noted how Bucky’s fingers were soot-stained. Blackened because he was working them down to the bone, toiling over some pot or pan, clinking bottles full of sludge together and hoarding them away until the apartment was filled with them, shelves bending and warping under their weight. The kitchen table was coated with so much dried candlewax that they both didn’t bother scraping it off anymore—Bucky would just have to light more candles, boil more concoctions, all because Steve had one foot in the grave, and Bucky didn’t want him to have two.

He held the bowl close to his lips, basking in the warmth of the steam it emitted. Bucky would wait for him to drink to the last drop, but Steve would take his time. He’d cling to the warmth and listen to the howling winds outside, the ally cats scratching at their window because Bucky hadn’t been feeding them like he normally would. Since he was a kid, he’d give them scraps of his sandwiches and Steve swore those cats were immortal because the very same ones came to their windows and to their porch, curling up against Bucky’s legs and paying Steve no mind at all.

They must hate Steve, sucking up all of Bucky’s time, keeping him here in their stuffy apartment, smoke and steam curling the tips of Bucky’s hair and ash and soot staining his hands.

He took a sip. Maybe if Bucky’s newest potion gave him some energy, he’d finally get up and sweep away the cobwebs, or scrape off some candlewax. Maybe he’d stay alive another week before he needed a top up, and Bucky would be back at the stove, throwing god-knows-what into the stained steel pot, saying _, this time I’m sure it’ll work._

Steve knew he’d have to stop humouring him soon. No more potions, no spells, he’d die good and properly like he was meant to, and in the process, free Bucky from this apartment.

Maybe. Someday. He hadn't decided yet, because as he swallowed the last sip, Bucky’s smile grew less tired, and the winds outside died down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's a witch and Steve's kind of a zombie? Haha, yeah.


End file.
